that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

color
(in darkness)

is the shape
of your breath
(tangerine)

or the whisper
that scratches blue
out of black

and the middle
(which never falls
dead center)

the way the moon
wakes me up
with sharp raps
on my window

or silence

embarrassed

by its own
soliloquy

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

roots

fresh new growth
in tiny green houses

we remember
we cherish
we reminisce
we pine

today, the sun shines
lilac leaves reach
for gold
and warm light

soon
purple scent
will fill
every corner

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

breaking
ground

as if
we could plant

the seed
that will
save us

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

mo(u)rning song

a grey veil
of fog

does not stop
the red, red cardinal
from singing

from the topmost branch
of the still-bare tree
planted by the echo
of ancestor

in the hedgerow
red-winged blackbirds
harmonize

crow vies with jay

together we begin

a new day

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

.

window

everything is clean
and the world
is awash
with disease

dis-ease

ill seas

i watch the sky
not certain why

searching for signs
or rhymes
or lines

pointing
in the right

direction

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

sanctity
(sanity)

holding on

to:

your hand
your love
your whisper of hope
possibility
tiny miracles
tomorrow
grey clouds
sunshine

orion high
in night’s dark sky

a robin
builds a nest
in the tree
outside my window

she is my
hero

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

grief

that instant
each morning

just as you
open

didn’t really
sleep well
eyes

that instant
each morning

before
you remember

.

that is the
moment

i cling to

.

. . . . .

.

here i am again, doing this again–30 days of poems, hoping the words will come.
hoping hope will come, as well.

perhaps in a book
or under a rock in a garden
dotted with daffodil

or a path down the side
of a long empty road
dancing sideways and laughing
in that way no one ever
wants to hear

there’s always folding laundry
into perfect measured
squares

or washing dishing
slowly
just as the sun
begins to settle

there are six snowdrops
by the back door

nine crocus

ten thousand leaves

(i counted)

but at night
in a room
filled with ghosts and
fraught silence

there is no way around
this bitter elephant
crushing my chest
and building a home

in the corners
of verity

i see you
eating darkness

feeding fear
and ancient bear

i see you bleeding tears
of collective memory

and you
keep visiting
my dreams

as if

there is something
left
to say

i let the dog out
and the moon was singing

down at the swamp
one thousand geese
honked the words
to a universal melody

polaris twinkled

guiding each of us

home

.

.

.

and the minutes
turn back into hours

resting lazily
on firmaments
of fiction

you with
your back turned

away

from the light
and this corner
always lurking

never parried

a universe
in small spaces

revealing worlds
or open secrets

building stories
one by one

toppling towers

picking up pieces
again and again

learning you
in new lessons

leaving scars
mixed with

salt

and midnight
smiles

.

.

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